


with my name on your lips

by lvciens



Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Dear God this is so depressing but seriously what do you expect, M/M, Mentioned Gwen Stacy, Pining, Underage Drinking, Unrequited Love, and Sofa Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 21:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2666945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lvciens/pseuds/lvciens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry decides right then that if he can’t be the buzz in Peter’s ear, the ideal that lingers in the back of his mind and the nonpareil of his own totality, then he doesn’t want to be anything to him at all.<br/>(Peter is impeccability hidden beneath an unassuming smile and three layers of jackets. Harry's a mess.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	with my name on your lips

**Author's Note:**

> (title taken from "The Driver" by Bastille)
> 
> I'm sorry in advance for any serious spelling or grammar mistakes, I wrote this at 2am and I wouldn't let myself go to sleep until it was finished.  
> All in the name of angst!

Her name is Gwen Stacy, and he talks about her as if she were the air he breathed, the cells that kept his body alive and the light that shone from within his eyes, he weaves tales about her immense intellect and ethereal beauty like they were his gospel, a prayer of guidance and reassurance in times when he needed it. She is his reclamation, she is everything good in the world and she is perfect.

 

“Do you love her?” And Harry’s watching him from behind as his body twists to toss the pebble towards the awaiting sea, and it skims lightly across the surface like the air in Harry’s lungs that he doesn’t want to breathe.

 

“Yeah. Yeah I do, man. I really do.” The smile on Peter’s lips is genuine even as the stone sinks into the water, and he doesn’t even notice that Harry stays silent for the rest of the afternoon. Peter is elated, teetering giddily across a tightrope of commitments that he is too determined to keep his balance on, an enlightened drunk without the intoxication, slurring prophetic stanzas of love and prosperity of the emotional kind, stumbling home to a dream at the end of the night.

 

_(Harry remembers being sixteen in his boarding school dormitory with his roommate underneath his fingertips and how he would always hold onto the hope that when he looked up he’d see the immense brown eyes of the boy he loved so much on top of him and oh, he’d have teenage boys begging and writhing in a matter of seconds but it was never enough to dull the ache in Harry’s gut that called out for Peter Peter Peter, and when the taller boy pulls him to his chest to say goodbye all Harry can think of are the lips that he used to pretend were his)_

He locks himself up in his office that night and sulks with a half empty bottle of vodka in between his crossed legs, and he does background checks on Gwendolyn Stacy in some vague attempt to find a reason to hate her that didn’t have to do with _Peter,_ give him a reason to roll his eyes at the mention of the name without encouragement from the flare in his chest.

 

He’s downed the whole bottle when he realises that he _can’t,_ he can’t find a reason to hate Gwen Stacy because she’s just so _good,_ she treads lightly upon the surface about her so that she leaves no cracks in her wake, and the glass explodes against the wall as he takes his head in his hands with sobs destroying the silence that he’s hidden himself in-

 

-and he realises that he shatters everything he touches until he is forced to piece it all back together with bloody fingers, but it’s never the same, and it’s never enough.

 

* * *

 

“You’ve never been drunk before?” It’s a question, yes, but it sounds more like statement of disbelief as it falls from Harry’s lips.

 

“No, never. I have never... I haven’t. I’ve never been drunk before.”

 

They’re sitting on Harry’s brand new black suede leather sofa with a bottle of expensive wine between them, and they’ve spilled it upon the material more times than they can count in this state, and the sofa was only made for one so they’re cramped as they face each other with their knees pressed together, and Harry’s passing off the redness of his cheeks as affects of the alcohol that he’s trying to use to drown out the irrationality that bites at his stomach.

 

“What other things have you never done?” And Harry knows exactly why he’s asking the question, and it eats him alive.

 

Peter purses his lips as he tilts his head in thought, and Harry wonders what he’d look like with bruises on his neck.

 

“I’ve never smoked before, never had a banana split, never crossed a pedestrian crossing when the lights were red. Also, I’ve never stolen anything. I haven’t actually- I don’t even think I’ve committed a crime... apart from the underage drinking thing.”

 

But this isn’t what Harry wants, and he’s squirming because he’s getting _impatient_ all of a sudden, and the way Peter’s watching him is making his skin itch, and he clenches and unclenches his fists over and over because he wants to reach out and _touch him,_ find out how it feels to have his hands in his hair, to find out what sounds he makes when he’s on the edge of coming undone.

 

“Did you know I first had sex when I was fifteen?” Harry makes a note to slap himself for saying that later.

 

Peter’s eyes widen for a moment before he laughs, a pathetic, giggly sound that Harry wishes he had never heard because _God,_ now it’s in his head and it’s making him dizzy and all he can do is stare at the boy that sits before him and ache and ache and ache.

 

“ _Fifteen!_ Jesus – you know what, I’m not even surprised. I’m not even surprised.” And he reaches up to scratch at his chin, brown eyes still fixed upon the fidgeting boy in front of him.

 

“Come on, don’t act like you’re so holy with your _girlfriend_ and your... perpetual bedhead.” Harry mumbles before bringing the bottle to his lips, dismayed to find it already half-empty. “I bet you weren’t much older than I was when you lost your own v-card.”

 

“Well yeah, you’d think that, wouldn’t you?” Peter grabs the bottle the second it’s left Harry’s mouth and examines it for a few seconds before placing it in his lap. “You wouldn’t suspect that the closest thing I’ve had to sex was the time a girl accidentally poked me in the belly button in sophomore year, but there you go.”

 

And Harry sits back with his lip under his teeth and for a second he just _looks_ at Peter, takes in those eyes that always look so _honest,_ asking for him to _just tell me_ , begging him _“tell me you love me, tell me that I’m the stars that fill your universe, and that you could never love anyone more than me because there could never be anyone else”_ but he stays quiet in the fog of his coherence and he’s letting himself look at Peter like he wants to because he just can’t seem to muster the energy to _care_ anymore, and he takes the bottle from in between his crossed legs.

 

“Bullshit.”

 

Peter just smiles up at him through his eyelashes, red from the embarrassment of it all, and he looks like a flustered schoolgirl as he runs a hand through his hair, suddenly unable to meet Harry’s gaze, and oh, Harry _likes_ that.

 

“I’m telling you, Har, I haven’t. It’s just – I’ve never really had the chance, you know? It just never seemed like an option for me.”

And maybe it’s the intoxication that’s messing with his rationality, but suddenly Harry can’t even _think_ and he lets his fingers get caught up in the fabric of Peter’s shirt, feeling the warmth of Peter’s chest inches away from his fingertips and the trembling of his hands as he tightens his grip.

 

He pulls him close enough so that he can feel Peter’s forehead against his own, and the smell of expensive wine and cheap takeout overpowers him, and he says “Yeah? Well, we can fix that.”

 

And when Harry feels their lips touch he takes Peter’s face in his hands and he kisses him, properly, like he’d always envisioned he would, and for a second he forgets about the coals burning in his chest or the ache that makes his gut lurch or the sickness he feels when he thinks about _Gwen Stacy;_ he kisses Peter like he deserves because he is the hope implemented to reassure a world in chaos, and he doesn’t even know it. He is as radiant as any nebula in the vast expanses of the universe, but he is oblivious to his own brilliance.

 

Peter breaks the kiss almost as soon as it starts, and he looks at Harry for a moment like he’s a puzzle that he can’t figure out, but his features are soft and his face is still so close as he closes the gap between them again, and with a breath he’s figured him out, he knows exactly what Harry wants from him, knows exactly how to kiss him to get him to shudder, and his hands move up to rest lightly on the older boy’s neck as he clambers into his lap.

 

They’re in synch, bodies crammed onto the too-small couch, and Harry’s whispering “Are you sure?” against Peter’s lips even though he _knows_ there’s no going back from here, he’s got everything he wants in his grasp, beneath his lips, pressed against his body, and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to let it go.

 

 _“Yes.”_ Peter gasps, and Harry presses open-mouthed kisses against his neck with a newfound urgency, like there’s not enough _time,_ like there’s a clock counting down the seconds Harry has to leave marks all over Peter’s skin, and he’s tugging Peter’s shirt over his head as soon as the confirmation leaves his lips, pressing his hands to the exposed skin like its his salvation, trailing his fingertips down Peter’s spine and feeling the tremors in response.

 

It’s only moments before Peter’s returning the favour, and Harry suppresses a wince because that shirt was so _damn expensive,_ and his teeth are chattering as he feels Peter’s hands graze along the bones in his hips, drifting up to his shoulders, and suddenly Peter’s pressing him down into his own sofa, and it’s cramped and they don’t fit and it’s so _stupid,_ but Harry feels the other boy laughing breathlessly against his neck, and he’s never heard anything more beautiful in his entire life. Peter’s lips are hot against the hollow of Harry’s throat, and he trails them down along his jaw until they brush against his mouth, and Peter hovers there for a moment as he drives his hips downwards, feeling Harry’s moans against his skin.

 

“Peter,” Harry breathes, and he’s gripping the younger boy’s thighs through the fabric of his jeans but it’s _not enough_ , “Oh God. _Please._ ”

 

And he wasn’t expecting to be taken charge of so easily as Peter loosens his belt with almost a god-like precision, kissing him like he’ll never get the chance to again, sucking on his tongue with his hands laced in his hair, but _God,_ he’s never been further away from complaining.

 

_(So when Harry’s fingers find themselves delicately tracing along Peter’s thighs to rest at the base of his spine while his groans fill the penthouse too long empty from silence he has to remind himself that there’s no need to pretend anymore)_

_(And he doesn’t say “I love you” but he says his name again and again and again until he’s forgotten the difference)_

*  * *

 

Harry’s awake when he feels Peter stir beneath him, and they’re lying curled up on the sofa that Harry can _never_ use again, and he’s got his legs intertwined with Peter’s and his head resting so effortlessly on the younger boy’s chest, and he thinks for a second that Peter’s going to settle back down, he’s going to kiss Harry’s head before closing his eyes, but he doesn’t-

 

-and he checks to see if Harry’s awake _(he is, but Peter doesn’t know that)_ before he slides his body out from beneath him, and he lowers him gently back onto the sofa, and through closed eyes Harry can sense Peter dressing in front of him, silent, ashamed in his sobriety, and he leaves, each step adding a weight to Harry’s shoulders that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to shrug off.

 

The emptiness that resounds with the softly closing door is enough to bring Harry to tears then and there.

 

He curls in on himself, face crumpling in the pathetic, childlike way that his father had so enjoyed _slapping_ out of him, hugging his knees to his chest to stop the ache in his stomach from eating him alive. He bites his knuckles until he bleeds, and he buries his limbs in the throw rug that had covered their bodies and he closes his eyes until he’s numb enough to stand.

 

_(He drinks an entire bottle of wine that morning and he discovers that it tastes so much sweeter when you’re not the only one drowning in it)_

*  * *

 

“I don’t know why you’re here, Peter.”

 

“To check on you! You know, man, you haven’t been answering your _calls,_ your butlers won’t let me into your house anymore, it’s like you’ve decided to completely isolate yourself from me, and I have no idea why.”

 

Harry whirls around then, because he’s been blowing him off until this point, but now his face is hot and his fists are clenched, and he doesn’t need this, not now, because he was meant to be at a meeting ten minutes ago and he hasn't _slept_ for three days, and his eyes are throbbing and he can’t remember what it feels like to be completely sober.

 

“You know _exactly_ why. Don’t play dumb with me and pretend you don’t know, because you do, so just leave me alone.” He snaps, fixing a solid glare upon the taller boy. He still doesn’t trust himself to look at Peter the way he wants to _(because he knows that if he does the he'll remember how it felt to have Peter's hips graze against his own, and how it was all for nothing anyway)._

And Peter’s confused, he doesn’t understand _why_ Harry’s pushing him away, because of course _he remembers_ what happened, but he brushes it off merely as a drunken act and it just doesn’t register _,_ he’s oblivious to the flames he fuels in Harry’s chest, unheeding to the distress and the grief that he causes, because he has always tried to progress through life without leaving a scratch, but he’s spent so long checking up on every minor detail of his existence that he’s never stopped to examine the real damage.

 

“Harry,” he murmurs, and his eyes are wide with concern, and _oh,_ those eyes could flood the earth with their warmth, “Please. I’m just trying to be your friend.”

 

But the word feels like a shove in the chest and it knocks the wind from Harry’s lungs, and he decides right then that if he can’t be the buzz in Peter’s ear, the ideal that lingers in the back of his mind and the nonpareil of his own totality, then he doesn’t want to be anything to him at all.

 

And the words “I don’t _want_ to be friends.” hiss out from between his teeth _(but the words “because you are always going to be so much more” stay locked in his chest as he walks away)._

He doesn’t look back.

 

*  *  *

 

_“Harry? Look... uh... Okay. This is... this is really hard for me, you know that? It’s hard. And I wanted you to know that first, because I... No, okay, I’m just gonna – I’m just gonna say it. I’m just gonna say it, and you can ignore me, like you have all my other messages, or... Okay. I’m... I’m moving. Away. To England. Gwen’s got this scholarship at Oxford and... I don’t know, college isn’t really working right now, I failed all my midterms and I just... I thought I might as well, I mean it’s not like I’m leaving behind much except my aunt, and you know, and you, but... you’re not really talking to me now, so... Anyway, I just wanted to tell you. And I also thought you should know that you... you were always there for me, man. You were always there, and you’ve never let me down.  And I feel like I’ve let you down, and I’m – I’m sorry. And I would’ve loved to have told you this in person, but – you know, you’ve kind of cut me off. But that’s not – that’s not the point of this. The point – the point is that I wanna thank you. I wanna thank you for everything. And if you’re up for it, you know, I’d love to see you before I left to say a proper goodbye and everything, so... if you wanna do that... then please, please call me. Because I miss you – which is kinda funny because I haven’t even left yet, but yeah. I miss you, man. I really do. So, yeah, call me back, if you want. I’ll... I’ll see you around, Harry.”_

*  *  *

 

He’s swaying on the rooftop with a lit cigarette perched in between his teeth and a bottle of whiskey in his hand, and he’s giggling to himself as his bottom lip trembles. He wonders whether his insurance policy will cover throwing his phone over the balcony, and he decides that it probably will once they realise who he is.

 

Peter thrives, travels to corners of the world he never thought he’d reach with the girl he loves more than anything. Harry drinks and the sun rises.

 

_(He was the twenty-year-old prodigy child with the world at his fingertips, and all it took was a gawky boy from Queens to shift his sights, and he wonders if he’ll ever be able to fix himself)_

“Here’s to the happy couple!” he bellows to the city, a toast that is swallowed up by the open air, and the words taste like acid, “And may they only have good fortune in all future endeavours, expeditions, and exertions.”

 

He raises the bottle in front of him and it quivers in his shaking hands, artefacts of his periodic triumph that remind him of nothing less than everything he has lost. He blinks tears out of his eyes, wonders if Gwen knows what it feels like to have Peter whispering, moaning her name against her neck, wonders if she knows what it feels like to have Peter's hands on her hips, in her hair, trailing down her neck, he wonders if she knows what it feels like to have Peter hold onto her body while he comes undone, because _he does_. 

He sneers then, and he is everything that he hates all at once.  _Not that any of it mattered._

 

Harry drinks. He is alone.

 

_(He’d never been a fan of formalities anyway.)_

**Author's Note:**

> "hey em, do you think maybe you could write something happy?" yeah no the answer to that is no.  
> i don't know why i'm only capable of being horribly pessimistic.  
> oh well, i hope you enjoyed this dose of readable depression  
> at least nobody died this time, right?


End file.
